


Comfort in Unexpected Places

by JoRaskoph



Series: Hannah and Neville-verse [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, Hannah and Neville should talk about their feelings, Neville is speechless, Nobody knows what they are feeling, Pansy is a single mother with a broken heart, Pansy knows how to be angry in the best of ways, Past Pansy Parkinson/Draco Malfoy one-night-stand, but they'd rather have sex, parent teacher night took an unexpected turn, the aftermath of a drunken night out, there's only one bed, there's only one shower
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:28:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29428140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoRaskoph/pseuds/JoRaskoph
Summary: “You were the one who brought her into our bed!”“You were going to send her away! You said ‘I’m sorry, we only have one bed…’ We couldn’t let her apparate in that state!”“Well, I was going to say she’d have to make do with the sofa…”“Oh…““Yes, oh!”…When Neville Longbottom wakes up with a hangover and Pansy Parkinson in bed between his wife and him, he fears for his marriage.When Hannah Longbottom wakes up with a hangover and Pansy Parkinson in bed between her husband and her, she rediscovers an old crush.When Pansy Parkinson wakes up with a hangover between Hannah and Neville Longbottom she feels frighteningly vulnerable and has no idea what she wants.…The story where I practice writing smut and nobody knows how to talk about their feelings.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Pansy Parkinson, Hannah Abbot/Pansy Parkinson, Hannah Abbott/Neville Longbottom
Series: Hannah and Neville-verse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2161824
Kudos: 4





	1. Neville

_ “You were the one who brought her into our bed!” _

_ “You were going to send her away! You said ‘I’m sorry, we only have one bed…’ We couldn’t let her apparate in that state!” _

_ “Well, I was going to say she’d have to make do with the sofa…” _

_ “Oh.“ _

_ “Yes, oh…” _

Through their whispered exchange, Neville has his eyes locked on Hannah’s face. He can’t look away. He can’t look away because if he does, he’s going to look at the woman lying between them.

If he looks, he’ll see a mess of black curls on the pillow that Molly Weasley embroidered; bright lipstick Hannah would never wear smudged beyond the borders of lips that have lost their wicked smile in slumber; the top of a soft breast flowing out of a low cut top, pressed up against the sheets he washes every Sunday… 

Neville doesn’t need to look to know that Pansy Parkinson sleeping in their bed looks incredibly out of place and incredibly attractive. 

And if he does look at her, his wife will hate him for it. So he gives his very best not to look, to return Hannah’s look in his most reliable, _ faithful  _ fashion.

He still doesn’t quite understand how the three of them ended up here anyway. 

Parent-teacher nights are not the kind of event you would usually expect to end with a hangover and a stranger in bed between your wife and you. 

In fact, he’d been a bit too preoccupied with this year’s crop of mandrakes to even remember the meeting, let alone expect anything from it at all. Hannah had been a bit annoyed with him when she had had to remind him again that very morning …

But then they ended up walking out of the gymnasium at Hogsmeade Primary with Pansy Parkinson of all people – united in rage over the proposed cut of all health class periods.

“I know just what we need now!”, Pansy had said as she pulled on Hannah’s sleeve and the two of them into the Hog’s Head bar. From then on the night became ever more memorable. 

That woman knew how to be angry in the best of ways!

Now, head pounding and mouth dry as sand cake, he remembered why he had done well to avoid the party life for so many years. The life they’d built, even if you might call it boring, was exactly what he wanted. It was a life in which one day was much like the other and hangovers didn’t happen.

Who cared if they didn’t go out to party as they had used to right after the war? The war was now a less jarring memory, a memory which to dull he didn’t need alcohol for. Their life was no longer ruled by its after-shocks, instead they’d gotten to make their own choices.

And they’d chosen this cottage, each other, their beautiful daughter… Wonderful choices that he’d gladly make all over again.

The rumbling in his stomach has his head swimming and the only thing anchoring him is looking at Hannah’s face. It’s a beautifully familiar face. The one face he is closest to being able to remember in the whole world. He knows her pale hair and rosy cheeks and plump lips. They’ve been his home for so many years … She knows all of him, loves him for who he really is. He doesn’t know how he’d thought, even for a second, that Pansy’s sarcasm and dark humour could match all they had.

Hannah is the woman he wants to look at! Together they’ll continue to make it through everything, even through whatever trouble comes from having Pansy Parkinson in one’s bed. 

He gives Hannah a tentative smile but she doesn’t return it, doesn’t even see him smile, because she is looking away from him.

It takes Neville a second to follow her gaze and now he is looking at Pansy after all.

“Are you two done with your moment now?” 

Her voice, her personality is too shrill for their cosy bedroom. She’s staring daggers and Neville wonders how he could forget in just a few hours everything he finds annoying about her. He’s managed to make up a whole new person in his mind, a woman so attractive he was fearing for his marriage. Now the reality is glaring at him with one eyebrow raised - still attractive, but bristling.

“Because I need a shower.”

There’s an unfamiliar glee in Hannah’s voice as she says, with a wink, “I’m afraid we only have  _ one _ shower!”


	2. Pansy

_ “You were the one who brought her into our bed!” _

_ “You were going to send her away! You said ‘I’m sorry, we only have one bed…’ We couldn’t let her apparate in that state!” _

_ “Well, I was going to say she’d have to make do with the sofa…” _

_ “Oh.“ _

_ “Yes, oh…” _

Hushed voices talking about her as if she weren’t there and her mouth tasting like the floor of a pub. Both are things she’s used to, but still not what Pansy wants on her free Saturday.

Her two companions from last night seem to have re-discovered the sticks they usually keep up their asses. She only resists the impulse to cover her head with a pillow because she doesn’t want to draw their attention to herself.

It’s her kids’ Saturday with their dad so this means the only free morning she gets each month. How did she end up in a place where she’ll soon be asked to leave on the one day she could actually sleep in? 

Concentrating on the hot anger bubbling in her veins, she channels well worn arrogance, wrapping herself in it like in a familiar fuzzy blanket.

“Are you two done with your moment now? Because I need a shower.”

The words feel unwieldy as she forces them over her tongue. They are not sharp enough, sticking to her like last night’s sirupy shots. She doesn’t think she’s fooling anyone, but then Longbottom’s face goes sour, brows drawing together and mouth curling as if she were a bad taste in his mouth. The contempt is familiar, and it’s not coming from him, she put it there. She feels steadied.

If this is how this bizarre interlude will end, at least it’s going in a direction that’s familiar, one that makes sense to her.

It’s Hannah who surprises her. 

“I’m afraid we only have one shower!”

There’s a double meaning there. Pansy searches the other woman’s face for answers, but all she finds are clear eyes and rosy cheeks. Where Longbottom considers her with unveiled distrust, Hannah’s gaze is harder to read.

It doesn’t seem to be the hostility of a jealous wife whose drunken husband brought a stranger into their martial bed, not enough malice in Hannah’s face. There’s some ridicule in there, but it’s a bit vague, fleeting, as if it’s not even directed at Pansy. The expression is one she can’t place and It’s unnerving. 

Is it the distaste she sometimes receives from self righteous society ladies for what they consider a daring neckline? She remembers putting on her black shirt last night, the one that accentuates her boobs and she’s not wearing a bra, so chances are her cleavage is pretty out of control right now.. But Hannah doesn’t wear the look of fake surprise that usually goes with the outrage. Although, her eyes do linger in a way that’s familiar.

After a short moment Hannah grins and winks and everything falls into place. It’s lust! Maybe Longbottom was not the only one looking at her cleavage last night. His wife just seems to be far better at subtlety.

Relief washes over Pansy. Lust, she knows and she smiles.

Obviously emboldened by Pansy’s positive reaction, Hannah holds out a hand. “Let me show it to you!”

It’s strangely intimate to be holding hands, even after sharing a bed. The gesture reminds Pansy of playing with her brother, back when they were too little to know anything about dark lords, or wars. Instead, they used to hold onto each other’s hands when they were tiptoeing into the kitchens after bedtime or escaping their governess, sneaking into the grounds to play instead of doing their writing exercises.

Perseus always held on too tightly when he was scared and his palms were always sticky with sweat. Similarly, Hannah’s touch doesn’t feel exciting. It’s the situation that’s suggestive – their near nakedness in only thin tops and underwear, the goosebumps that run up her arms as she leaves the warmth of the covers behind, the prickle of Longbottom’s eyes real or imagined on her skin –, but the dry grasp of Hannah’s fingers is comfortable like a pair of comfortable sweatpants.

Hannah opens the door and they both step through at the same time, awkwardly fitting their bodies around each other in the small space. For a moment there in the doorway, they are huddled together almost like children. The warmth radiating off of Hannah is a luxury in the crisp morning, but the moment is over as soon as it happened.

The bathroom is far smaller than the ones in her parents’ manor, but more spacious than the one in her current flat. Sparkling tiles, fluffy towels, shiny fittings – the Longbottoms are clearly better than her at elf-less housekeeping.

After rummaging in a cupboard, Hannah presents her with a guest towel and turns on the shower, noting that it would take a few minutes for the water to get hot. Her words are those of a polite hostess, but she’s still holding on to Pansy’s hand.

When there’s nothing left for her to do, Hannah stills and then they are just standing there, holding hands.

“So you only have one shower?”, Pansy breaks the silence with the first thing that comes to her mind. The quiet is making her uncomfortable and her voice rings sharp in the small room. “Whatever shall we do?”

Beside her, she can feel Hannah shuffling her feet. 

“You go ahead! I can wait.” 

It’s painfully obvious from the burning red on Hannah’s cheeks and the wistful tone of her voice that what she says is not what she wants. 

Pansy wants to be irritated with her. She doesn’t like when people are being dishonest with their wants. But Hannah’s face is so completely honest and her glances up through her eyelashes so completely transparent, that Pansy doesn’t know how to be irritated. She also doesn’t know what a good, grateful guest would say.

To avoid giving an answer, Pansy steps right into the spray of the shower, pulling Hannah in behind her. 

The water is still cold and knocks the breath out of her lungs. Pansy opens her mouth and let’s it pour into her mouth and out again, diluting the stale taste. Where water hits her hair, it releases last night’s stench, the smell of old smoke, always the most rank when it’s wet.

“God, that’s vile!”, Hannah exclaims wholeheartedly and Pansy breaks out into laughter.

“What an awful thing to say when you see me naked for the first time!”

They laugh together, so close in the small space of the shower.

Wordlessly, Hannah hands Pansy a bottle of shampoo and for a while they are both occupied. 

When floral notes have replaced the stench, Pansy looks up again and finds Hannah’s eyes on her. It’s the same lust in her eyes like in the bedroom, but this time, the desire is not veiled and Pansy is glad they are not playing games.

“Can I soap you up?”, Hannah asks, holding up another bottle.

It’s such an unassuming request.

“Sure, knock yourself out with your Hufflepuff kinks!”

Hannah sticks her tongue out at Pansy, and finally reaches out a hand to touch her.

She starts at Pansy’s shoulders, spreading the shower gel in circular motions that grow more and more expansive. The soapy foam is a thin barrier between them, but it makes the touch even more immediate. It allows Hannah’s palms to glide over Pansy’s body without friction, exploring without a single falter. She strokes down and back up over Pansy’s back, strokes around her neck, slick hands sliding down and stroking over her breasts almost coincidentally.

The pace doesn’t change, Hanna’s hands glide steadily down over Pansy’s belly and back up to stroke circles on her back before returning to her front.

Without meaning to, Pansy leans into the warm caress as muscles she wasn’t even aware were tense soften. Maybe, under the pour of water that’s finally warming up, she’s turning into liquid herself.

Only when a contented sigh escapes Pansy’s lips, Hannah takes the final step towards her. She touches her lips ever so lightly to the spot just under Pansy’s ear, careful as if her full body wasn’t already pressed flat against Pansy’s.


	3. Pansy Part Two

Despite what people are whispering behind her back, Pansy doesn’t have any experience with one-night-stands; and as a single mother, she doesn’t have much time to wonder what it would be like. But if the thought has ever crossed her mind, she has certainly not imagined the only sexual aspect to be standing in a tight embrace, making out under a hot shower. 

It’s entirely unexpected, but despite making fun of its Hufflepuff-ness before, Pansy admits to herself that this is nice. She doesn’t remember the last time someone held her like this. 

Between Aguila and Columba, there’s hardly ever a time when nobody is touching her. They are doing it for themselves because they need her. Pulling her this way and that, demanding cuddles to fall asleep and kisses to get better, hugs for encouragement, a hand to climb up somewhere or get back down, … 

Those are casual touches. They love her, but they view her as an appliance more often than not and in their excitement, they are hardly ever gentle.

Hannah on the other hand – it’s not love, but her touch is deliberate. Her hands are exploring Pansy featherlight but carefully, focused, concentrating on her as if she were a novel written in braille language.

As soon as Pansy realizes how much she is enjoying herself, the guilt sets in. Shouldn’t she be pleasing her counterpart in return? Is she being a tease for not going further?

“Don’t you want to do more?”, she asks, before she can even try to stop herself.

Hannah lifts her head from where it was resting on Pansy’s shoulder and looks up at her.

“Do you? Want to do something more, I mean?”, she asks breathlessly. Her head is tipped back, her cheeks are pink and little drops of water are stuck on her eyelashes. The question is sincere. Hannah obviously expects Pansy to answer her.

She hasn’t been with many people, but nobody has ever expected her to answer questions like this, to express her own desires, to think about them and make herself vulnerable to rejection.

Her face flushes hot and she leans forward to escape the scrutiny, pressing her mouth to Hannah’s. Their lips meet soft and warm, but Hannah pulls away.

She leans back and fixes Pansy again. 

“Do  _ you _ want to do something more?”

“I’m naked in the shower with you and your hands all over me”, Pansy shoots back, annoyance creeping into her voice. Suddenly, she feels vulnerable.

“But do you want to do more than that?”, Hannah repeats.

The insistent questions are confusing Pansy. Why is it so important what she wants? And why does Hannah’s gaze make her feel like she does in those nightmares when she’s in McGonagall's classroom and suddenly realizes she’s completely naked?

“I don’t know!”, she blurts out, feeling defeated. 

“Okay”, Hannah nods and leans in again, murmuring against Pansy’s lips, “then let’s just keep doing this!”

She doesn’t sound annoyed and when Pansy closes the distance to kiss her again, Hannah kisses back 

They jump apart when the water turns cold. Once out of the shower, cold air hits and it’s like a double sobering spell, the warm fuzzy moment evaporating with the billowing steam that escapes out of the window. Hannah hands her a towel, drying herself off as she walks out into the hallway.

“Sweet or savoury?”, she calls over her shoulder.

“For what?”

Hannah’s response is faint, coming from the direction of the bedroom. “Breakfast.”

Breakfast. As if that’s the natural conclusion to this bizarre experience, to sleeping in the bed of a married couple without anything happening and then being washed in the most intimate way she can imagine by someone she barely knows. Being washed, stroked, unravelled and then rejected. 

So then, apparently, the next order of business is breakfast.

“Won’t that be weird?”, Pansy asks helplessly, hoping for a reply that will help her make sense of something again.

But all she gets is a muffled “No!”

Pansy takes her time to reply, towels her hair dry, tries to regain some composure. This is not what she’s used to, but she’s not a helpless teenager anymore. Her life hasn’t made sense lots of times, her twins are a living reminder of that, and she’s always managed to make it work somehow. So even with the shaky feeling in her chest, she’s going to do just that – make it work somehow. 

When she feels more like herself again, Pansy steps back out into the hallway, hyper-aware of her nakedness, but doing her best to hold her head high. She doesn’t know if Longbottom is still in the bedroom, where her clothes are. Taking note of the way her hips sway when she’s walking, she reminds herself of his eyes following her last night. He wants her, that’s something she can hold on to, can utilise if need be.

The bedroom is empty, and when she’s dressed, Pansy follows the smell of coffee downstairs into a cosy kitchen.

Standing in the doorway, she takes in the scene before her.

Warm morning light fills the room and Hannah is standing at the stove, pouring a cup from an Italian espresso cooker. Neville is carrying a bread basket to the table and, in passing his wife, comfortably brushes his hand over her back. At the touch, Hannah looks up and gives her husband a glowing smile.

The interaction is mundane, and it helps to center Pansy again. These two belong to each other, they are a team and she’s nothing more than an outside observer. Everything is as it should be.

She shifts her weight to one leg, puts a hand on her protruding hip and with the shift in posture finds her comfortably familiar arrogant voice again.

“Savoury for me, and please tell me this coffee is actually some good!”

Like the well-coordinated team they are, Hannah and Longbottom set the table together. Hannah is frying eggs while Longbottom is handing Pansy a cup of admittedly excellent coffee and when she dutifully offers to help, they wave it away, telling her to just sit down and relax.

“So you got Malfoy after all, ha?”, Longbottom asks, ten minutes later, over his plate piled high with eggs, bacon and baked beans. He doesn’t follow the Prophet’s gossip columns, it seems. It’s unsurprising, Pansy concedes, even if life would be much easier if everyone had the common decency to keep up to date on the social goings-on in their small wizarding world.

She takes a sip of coffee and studies her nails while she thinks about possible answers.

Taking her silence as agreement, he prattles on, “It’s not many people who marry their date from the Jule Ball, if you think about it…” Absorbed as he is in buttering his toast, he doesn’t notice the alarmed look his wife shoots him. 

“Ouch! Why are you hitting me?”

If Pansy is completely honest with herself, Hannah Abbot hitting her husband over the head with the newspaper is one of the sweetest sights she’s seen. Even with her messy bun and a hangover, Hannah looks – for lack of a better word – cute.

Longbottom, on the other hand, looks like a confused puppy. His head goes from Pansy to his wife and back. She would never believe this display of innocence from any man, but with this one, she almost wants to.

With a sigh, Hannah takes heart and corrects her husband. “Neville, you’re embarrassing Pansy. She and Draco were never married.”

At the explanation, Longbottom’s confusion gives way to a sort of sincere indignation. “Oh, who cares about a marriage license? We’re not that kind of purebloods, you know!” 

Hannah shoots Pansy an apologetic look and shrugs helplessly.

“Well I tried”, she mouths and the pain on her face is comical as she bites into a powdered doughnut with gusto. Hannah hasn’t touched any of the savoury food she has prepared on Pansy’s request. Her plate is filled with food that consists at least in half of pure sugar. 

Sincerely confused, Longbottom finally asks, “Well, at the conference last night I thought they said your kids were Aquila and Columba Malfoy?”


	4. Hannah

_ “It’s not many people who marry their date from the Jule Ball, if you think about it… Ouch! Why are you hitting me?” _

_ “Neville, you’re embarrassing Pansy. She and Draco were never married.” _

_ “Oh, who cares about a marriage license? We’re not that kind of purebloods, you know!”  _

It’s not often Hannah has an urge to strangle her husband, but now is one of those times. Pansy Parkinson is sitting opposite them at their kitchen table and sipping casually at her double espresso. She is poised, every one of her movements designed to maintain a certain distance, but her cheeks are flushed. Her long black hair is still damp, dripping ever so often and moisture is sticking her top to her skin where the drops fall. 

Evidence of the shower they shared is all over her and it’s enough to make Hannah’s heart beat faster.

The Pansy she used to watch from a distance at school was inaccessible to anyone outside her own small group of girls. All others were kept in their place with cutting remarks and pointed disparaging looks. It made Hannah uncomfortable, but she couldn’t help but daydream about an alternate universe in which she herself would be brave and witty enough to befriend her.

At the time, she wasn’t aware of her crush, but she has made sense of her fascination years ago now.

And now, over two decades later, Pansy is sitting just an arm's length away, close enough to reach out a hand to touch if she were sure she was still allowed to. Hannah dearly wishes her husband could pick up on nonverbal cues just this once. She gives a silent apology to Pansy and revels in the intimacy of this moment of unspoken understanding, trying not to think about what will come next. 

Sure enough, Neville asks about the kids’ surname. As if it mattered who Pansy used to sleep with when she slept in  _ their _ bed last night, when Hannah so desperately wants to invite her to do it again.

The question hangs in the air like smoke, permeating everything else in the room and changing the whole atmosphere. In the silence, the clock on the wall is ticking too loudly, the seconds passing too slowly while even Hannah’s heart seems to be beating more quietly in anticipation. To keep from staring at Pansy she inspects her doughnut. It’s a few days old, squished at the side and the powdered sugar has become translucent in places.

“They are”, Pansy finally offers. “Sure, Draco regretted knocking me up during his rebound one-night stand, but he refused to have children who didn’t carry his name, so he bribed me.” The last part is said flippantly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to name your children according to a business transaction. 

Hannah slowly sets the doughnut back onto her plate. Suddenly, she doesn’t much care if Neville’s questions are making Pansy uncomfortable and the smile that has been tugging at her mouth ever since she woke up is gone. She has heard the rumours when Pansy gave birth to twins just nine short months after the Malfoy divorce, but she didn’t know that all it took was a one night stand.

“He  _ bribed _ you?”

Neville doesn’t even try to hide his distaste or make light of things with a joke and Pansy’s face is finally turning decidedly sour.

“So what if he did? He didn’t want to marry me, but our arrangement ensures that the kids will be well taken care of, no matter what happens. Spare me your pity!”

While Pansy is talking, a cold fist is clenching around Hannah’s heart and she feels like a distant observer to the scene, no longer an active participant. Her thoughts are racing, running wild in directions she doesn’t want them to go and she’s frantically looking around for something else to concentrate on. The patterned curtains have turned a bit yellow in the lighter spots, she notices, they need to be washed. There are little bunnies on the pattern. Ah, she’ll better go down to Honeydukes tomorrow so she can pick up the special enchanted Easter Chocolate bunnies for Holly! They sell out so fast.

Without a word, Hannah gets up and walks over to the counter where she keeps her calendar. She wants to make a note, but the pencil is not tucked into the wire-bound back where it should be.

“Oh, don’t worry, Parkinson! You won’t get any pity from me for having  _ two _ perfectly healthy children!”

Neville’s voice has turned very low and quiet. He’s angry, Hannah registers distantly, but she doesn’t allow herself to dwell on his anger, or the reason for it. She needs a pen! No pen in the utensils drawer, neither in the cupboard. Frantically, she digs around between pots and pans, mugs and glasses. When she opens the utensils drawer for the second time, Hannah sighs.

Behind her, Pansy and Neville are arguing more heatedly now, their urgent voices getting harder and harder to tune out.

There might be a pen in the study, she thinks, and walks out.

Neville finds her on her hands and knees, fishing for the pen under the sofa. Around her, the contents of various desk drawers are scattered in piles on the floor. A stack of parchment, clips, letters …

“I told her to go”, he says softly, as he lowers himself to the floor beside her. His warm hand is heavy on her shoulder and when Hannah gets up and leans into his side, she realises her face is wet. There are tears rolling down her cheeks, falling on Neville’s washed out sweater as he holds her close.

“There there.” He awkwardly patts her, as if she were a spooked horse.

A few times, Hannah tries to speak. Her throat is closed up, her chest heaving, and all that comes out are stifled sobs.

They sit together in silence, until her breath comes more evenly. But even then, all she has to say is: “I just needed a pen.”

And Neville leans over to press a soft kiss onto her mouth, tears streaking his own face.

“I know.”


	5. Hannah Part Two

It has not been the last time Hannah dissolves into tears that day. Next, it’s when she joins Neville at the table for their second attempt at breakfast. She’s carefully setting down the bowl of cereal she’s carrying and Neville holds out the pen to her.

“There you go, honey. Found it in my overalls.”

She sees the pen and attempts a grateful smile but it turns into a watery grimace. Without a word, he pulls her onto his lap. They eat one-handedly, not wanting to let go of the hands they’ve clasped over her belly. She can’t remember when they last sat like this, and it’s nice to feel connected, to know he understands her pain without the need for explanations. After a while, the tears subside, but they stay close to each other. Neither of them willing to leave the other alone, they spend the rest of the day with muggle shows on the sofa – all other plans forgotten.

The next time is when Augusta sends Holly back through the floo. Sun has started to set and the shadows are growing ever longer, creeping along the living room floor like Hannah imagines the inferi creeping out of the lake every time Harry tells that story. Neither of them has bothered to flick on the lights and they are bundled into a blanket when the floo roars to life.

Holly bursts from the green flames like a spell from a wand, a ray of concentrated energy, of hope and light and everything Hannah loves. Most of her blond curls are sticky with what appears to be pink jelly, there’s a hole on the knee of her jeans that wasn’t there yesterday and she desperately needs a bath. But her face lights up when she sees them and nothing else matters.

Without the faintest consideration for the limbs she’s stepping on under the blanket, the little girl climbs straight up to hug Hannah’s neck and press sticky kisses to both of their cheeks. It’s one of those unrealistically perfect moments and the tears in Hannah’s eyes and the ache in her heart are a little easier to bear with the warm child wrapped in her arms.

The rest of the day is a whirlwind of dinner and bathtime, sprinkled with excited stories about the talking portraits at Longbottom manor and the adventures of the stuffed vulture Holly has named Albert.

It’s only when they get ready to go to bed themselves that Hannah remembers with a rush of heat what happened before breakfast. There are water stains on the shower where she didn’t spell the glass dry like she usually does, there’s the towel carelessly thrown over the chest in their bedroom, there’s the unfamiliar scent on their sheets when she lies down. There’s the other big thing they have left unsaid all day.

“Did you mind, this morning?”

There’s no right way to ask, the words are not clear enough and all too clear at the same time. ‘Did you mind’ instead of ‘Should I not have done it’, because she doesn’t want to ask permission, doesn’t want to admit to doing anything wrong, to hurting him. ‘This morning’ instead of ‘when I left you behind in our bed to share a shower and rub up against someone who wasn’t you’, because she doesn’t want to rub salt in open wounds.

The sheets rustle as Neville gets in beside her, but there’s no answer. Instead, there are cold feet that press up against her calves, and an arm that snakes around her waist, breath that feathers over her ear. Hannah snuggles into the embrace. They are okay.

A hand slides up, over her ribcage, pushing the soft sleeping shirt out of the way. Neville’s hands are always rough from repotting plants or cutting branches. The calluses annoy her most times, but there’s something about the way he scratches them featherlight over her breasts that makes her slightly breathless. Hannah leans into the caress like she has a thousand times and like a thousand times before, Neville squeezes her flesh in response. It’s a gesture without any finesse, its appeal not in the actual sensation, but in its possessiveness.

With a swift movement, Neville pulls her against himself. There’s nothing but thin layers of tissue between them, his erection awkwardly squished into her hip. She vaguely wonders if that’s uncomfortable at all, but he grinds against her with a moan and the thought evaporates in unexpected urgency. Hannah turns to face him, reaching out blindly and holds on to whatever she finds – her hand onto his ass, her lips to his collarbone. The other hand is wedged between them, but she wiggles it free and reaches up, around his neck, holding on and pulling them closer still.

Their mouths meet in a crush. His lips are a bit chapped but soft and pliant against her own and she’s never noticed how gentle Neville’s kisses are. She’s never had much to compare them to.

The memory of Pansy’s kiss pops into her mind unbidden. She doesn’t need it to feel like her skin is on fire. It’s Neville’s hand that slides between her legs, his fingers that know just how to rub her clitoris and she loves it, loves him. She loves his stubble against her cheek, his teeth skimming her neck just so at just the right time, his voice growling against her skin.

“Mine.”

The heat between them is coursing down her body fast, too fast to think about what he’s saying. It’s the perfect overload of sensations and it explodes outwards, shooting from her core into the tips of her fingers and toes in tingling waves.

When she has caught her breath, Neville is kissing a line of satisfied little kisses along her shoulder. 

They shift position like it’s a well-practised choreography, and it is. Her rolling back onto her back, lifting her legs to let him slide closer again and guiding his penis between her labia with her hands. The interaction is factual, purposeful and it’s more than worth it when Neville starts to thrust.

She’s never much enjoyed penetration, but when she comes first, when her clit and labia are pulsing and she feels every stroke like it’s touching the very core of her… it’s a different matter entirely. Her mind is filled with his movements, and every one of them pulls a hoarse moan from her throat. 

Her pleasure is spurring Neville on, movements turning erratic, breath already going fast as he grabs her hips harder. There’s just enough time for Hannah to reach down and coax a second orgasm from her now over-sensitive clitoris. Neville’s breath is coming in short, rough bursts and it’s easy enough to let his excitement reflect inside herself. Each of his gasps followed by one of her own, his tension mirrored by the tension in her.

The back and forth is mesmerizing, and she wishes it would go on like this forever, but the build-up is even faster the second time and climax follows all too soon.

Later, they lie curled up in each other, limbs tangled, warm covers around them. The lights are off, and Hannah studies the shadows on the ceiling. She can feel Neville breathing evenly beside her and assumes he’s fallen asleep until he whispers: “I was so sure you were angry because I asked her to stay.”

She burrows her face in the side of his neck and hopes he can feel her smile.

“I wasn’t. I liked it.”

His arms tighten around her.

“Yeah, I figured that out eventually.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find more on Hannah's and Neville's past in the one-shot "Hope" on my author page.


	6. Neville Part Two

“But did you mind?”

Hannah wants them to talk. Her head is on his chest, cheekbone digging uncomfortably into his collarbones, stray hairs tickling his nose. She makes to get up to look at him, but he tightens his arms around her shoulder, unwilling to let go of her warm body just yet. Agreeably, she settles back down against him.

Idly, he skims his hand over her shoulder, down and up the curve of it, grazing her neck then withdrawing again. He feels her shudder under his touch and continues his efforts. The skin under his fingertips is soft like Stahis leaves and he can feel the flutter of her pulse underneath. He wants to put his lips on the spot where her life is beating so strong, unwavering even after all that they’ve been through. 

Goosebumps have formed where he continues to stroke her and Hannah moans but then swats his hand away.

“No! Stop trying to distract me with sex”, she chides with laughter in her voice and pushes off to lean on her elbow. To prove her point, she flicks the lights back on. Her cheeks are still flushed from their previous activities and he wants very much to kiss them, so he does, softly pressing his lips to each one in turn.

Then, because he’s already there, he moves on to her smiling mouth. 

Hannah’s happiness fills him with warmth, just like her tears made him feel cold and hollow today. It’s not that he doesn’t have his own grief to deal with. The child they’ve lost is always there, just as much a part of their life together as the espresso maker in the kitchen or the bed they are lying in now. But the absence has worn itself a place in his heart, a comfortable niche it can sit in without disturbing the rest of his life. Hannah occupies the place she has in his heart much more lively and ever-changing.

He tries to convey his affection for her in the kiss, tries to make his sliding tongue a declaration of love much more well-spoken than he could ever be, but Hannah won’t have it. 

“We  _ need _ to talk”, she says when she breaks away, filling the words with as much emphasis as if she were saying plants  _ need  _ water to survive. He has an instinctive understanding of the latter need, but he’s not so sure about the former.

What does she want him to say? How he felt watching her get up and walk out of their shared bedroom half-naked and hand in hand with someone else? How he was lying there, head pounding and blood rushing down as he slowly realised what they were about to do? How he stayed there for a while, waiting for them to come back but finally realising that they wouldn’t? How he eventually got up and put on the coffee in the kitchen, all the while unable to keep from listening for sounds from the bathroom? 

How could words express how the thought of her naked in their shower with Pansy Parkinson made him feel, still makes him feel?

_ He _ doesn’t even know how he feels.

And then, when Hannah made them all sit down for breakfast as if it were the most normal thing in the world, he tried to play along, tried to find his footing while he was so hopelessly out of his depth. Much good it did them!

“I minded when she made you cry!”, is what he ends up saying. 

Hannah laughs. “But she didn’t do that on purpose. It’s not like she had the twins just to spite us.”

Her use of the plural form smoothes the edges of his anger, but it’s still there, hot in his chest. As consolation, he shuffles closer, burying his face in Hannah’s breasts. 

“I don’t care if it was on purpose,” he mumbles. It’s true. What he cares about is how on the days the past holds Hannah in its grip, he feels as if he has to stay with her at all times to make sure it doesn’t steal her away.

But right now, with his face at her chest, where he can feel her heart beating and knows she is safe, other things seem more urgent. Her sweet musky smell fills his mind and he wants to taste her. He licks a stripe along the curve of her breast. Salty. There’s something incredibly satisfying about the roundness of it. Hannah doesn’t object, and he licks it again. She sighs and he thinks it’s because he’s stalling, but when he lifts his head to look at her, she nudges him back down. 

He sucks her nipple into his mouth, rolling his tongue around it. The tissue contracts under his touch, smooth planes turning into a landscape of valleys and hills and he takes his time cataloguing it. The nerves on his tongue are so much more sensitive than the ones on his hands and it’s a thrill to enjoy her tiny details like this.

Their talk about Pansy is still occupying half his mind and it’s not entirely coincidental that his erection returns with unexpected enthusiasm.

He’s just about to concentrate his linguistic efforts further down, when Hannah decides to get back on topic. “I think we should invite her back”, she says casually, maybe too casually.

“To do what? Play bridge?”, he shoots back before he can even think about it.

Hannah props herself up on one elbow and runs her hand through his hair, a gesture she knows he hates, but insists on anyways. “What would you _want_ us to do?”

Neville winces. To claim he didn’t know would be entirely untrue. The truth is, he can’t decide. Since last night, when he caught himself watching Pansy’s throat move as she swallowed a shot of tequila, his mind has been buzzing with images, real and imagined: Pansy’s lips shiny with liquid, Pansy’s curls on their bed, Pansy looking up at him from where she’s got him hot in her mouth, Pansy’s black hair tangling with Hannah’s blonde one as the two of them kiss, Hannah’s hand on Pansy’s breast, both of them moaning at his touch, …

He knows what he wants, but he doesn’t know if he can deal with the consequences. In reality, his touch isn’t needed, and what does that mean for them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews make my day.


	7. Pansy Part Three

So the Longbottoms threw her out. Pansy was right all along, but it doesn’t feel good in this case. If the entire situation hadn’t already been baffling, the conversation at the breakfast table would have been enough to throw her off balance.

And Merlin only knows why one of them got so upset she started to cry while the other threw her out over it...

Even though she’s already been back at her flat for most of the day, her thoughts are still racing. It’s slowly getting dark and she’s restlessly pacing from one room to the next, replacing things to their proper places. There’s a bit much force in the way she’s throwing a lone sock into the hamper and an expired yoghurt into the trash.

What does it matter to them how her kids were named? Granted, having to keep with the traditional Black naming convention _was_ a bit of a pain, but two full to bursting vaults at Gringotts say she did the right thing.

She certainly doesn’t see why the Longbottoms think they get an opinion. Shaking her head irritatedly, she gets to work in the hall. Before they left last night, Aquila managed to scatter the entire contents of her bathroom drawer There. A toothbrush – thankfully still wrapped – has been shoved into one of Pansy’s work shoes, and a tube of lotion sits on the rug where she kicked it out of the way after almost stepping on it when she came home this morning. 

When she has finally picked up all seventeen pieces, her back aches and she curses Draco’s weakness for beauty products. She’s fairly sure no six-year-old needs a skin and hair care routine. But even if she doesn’t always agree with Draco’s parenting, the two of them make do. And if it's not the perfect family harmony the Longbottoms enjoy, what do they care?

Right when she's about to give in and write a strongly worded owl demanding an explanation, the doorbell chimes. Soon, her brooding silence is replaced by two excited voices shouting over each other to try and be the first to tell her about their day with Draco. 

“Mum, mum, we went to Hogsmeade!”

“To meet Scorpius!”

“No, let me tell!” It’s Columba who reaches her first but Aquila is right behind her and doesn't hesitate to shove her sister out of the way. 

“We met Scorpius and I got a box of sugar quills!”, she shouts, right into Pansy's ear, meeting their brother only barely winning out over the stop at Honeydukes.

Columba has now grabbed a fistful of Aquila’s hair to try and pull her away from Pansy and while Pansy fights to pry the strong little fingers open, Aquila shouts: “I watched a Quidditch match!” 

“No, but I wanted to tell!”, Columba wails, and it’s impossible to tell if the pain on her face comes from disappointment or from Aquila stomping on her foot.

They’ve only been away for twenty-four hours, but it takes Pansy a moment to catch up to their impossible speed and remember her twin wrangling proficiency. When she does, she straightens up and bellows: “Go wash your hands, you’re all sugary and germy.”

Both girls look up at her with an identical look of horror, mouths open and eyes wide as if she were threatening to drown a kitten, and when Pansy adds a stern “Right now!”, they stomp off, united in the feeling of being deeply, deeply wronged.

Pansy sighs as she watches them go, running both hands through her hair. “I’m getting too old for this.”

“You’re doing fine, sweetheart”, comes a deep chuckle from where Draco still leans in the doorframe. His hair is wind-blown in the most stylish way, his blue coat crisp and shiny. His eyes are sparkling with energy. He doesn't look as if he spent his day running after two sugar-crazed kids. There's a pang in Pansy's heart.

"Hi you", she offers, suddenly feeling very tired.

As if challenged by her non-commitment, he offers his most brilliant smile and patts her shoulder. "A cup of tea?" He's offering as if this were his home, and she plays along.

When the girls come thundering into the kitchen, Draco sits in his place at the kitchen table and Pansy is just pouring boiling water from the electric kettle into two cups. Aquila suddenly remembers an all-consuming hunger and demands noodles. In the meantime, Columba, who has a startling understanding of when it’s easiest to let her louder sister yell for the things they both want, quietly secures her place on Draco's lap and starts telling him a murmured story.

With another adult in the flat, it’s easy to be the mother she wants to be, so Pansy puts more water to boil and directs Aquila on how to put in the noodles and set the timer. The little girl is beaming from where she’s standing on a kitchen chair and while the noodles boil, she gets a chance to tell the whole story about their day without interruptions. Pansy listens with her wand tightly gripped and an emergency spell ready on her lips as she watches her daughter gesticulate. It’s a bit of an experiment, but well worth it, even if some of the noodles end up in the sink instead of the sieve.

They sit down at the table and Aquila presents the pasta with melted butter like it’s a gourmet dinner. So Draco stays to try them. While they eat and chatter, Pansy notices each of the girls steal glances at Draco when he’s not looking, making sure he’s still there.

The tea turns cold and then it’s time for bed and of course, Draco has to come to look for monsters under their beds and stay to read them a bedtime story. He tucks them in and they all huddle together in the blue twilight of a soft Lumos, Pansy watches from the doorframe and then returns to the kitchen to tidy up once again.

She’s scrubbing starchy water stains from the stove when Draco returns. She doesn’t turn around, but the soft steps of socked feet on hardwood tell her all she needs to know. He’s standing in the door again, half there and half already gone. The girls are so happy when he’s there and she’s always grateful for the extra set of hands. It’s late, and Scorpius is at Hogwarts so there’s no one waiting for him at home. Nobody who needs him but them.

Silently Pansy is screaming at him not to leave, but she won’t ask, so she’s scrubbing.

“Do you want me to stay?”, he asks in a low murmur.

“Yes, please”, she tells the stovetop.

It’s a breathless moment before he finally steps into the room. He’s warm when he comes up behind her, one hand resting on her waist, the other brushing her hair over her shoulder. His breath ghosts over her neck.

It’s too easy to forget all that happened, all that went wrong since then, and conjure the feeling that was coursing through her after she received that owl. _I broke it off with Astoria_ , he’d written and the adrenaline was pounding in her veins.

His lips graze her skin.

She’d been in Vienna at the time, in the old-town apartment she shared with three university students. It was finally a place that made her happy. High ceiling, trees in front of the window, a home in a strange city and carefree among muggles, unjudged. Then his owl. _Can you come back?_ , he’d asked and she had her bags packed before the owl had even left her windowsill, so full of joy at the thought of him wanting her.

His tongue licks up her neck.

Standing in front of his door, her head had been full of dreams. Light and laughter, giggles and kisses, the imagined future making her lightheaded. 

He bites the soft skin just under her ear lobe and his hands slide down and around her hips.

He’d opened the door with a grin on his lips and she doesn’t remember if they exchanged greetings before falling into each other’s arms. The kisses were hot and urgent, hands wandering as they stumbled through the door and to the nearest available surface. She remembers in eerie clarity her bra dangling over a lamp and the flash of pink on his cheeks when he fumbled with his belt. She’d wanted to kiss the embarrassment from his face, but she’d been too preoccupied kissing a trail down his stomach. Instead, she’d taken the belt out of his hands and his cock into her mouth.

She finally gives up the pretence of concentrating on her task and leans into him, blindly feels for him behind her. His legs are still strong and muscular, his ass firm and round enough to squeeze. There’s no need to feel for his erection, it’s pressed into her, now that she’s closed the space between them. She grinds against him and he groans.

When they fucked then, she’d thought they’d talk about everything else later, but it turned out he thought there was nothing to talk about.

_I don’t love you._

When they fuck now, she savours the silence. As long as they don’t speak, she can pretend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The soundtrack to writing this chapter was "Monsters" by All time low.
> 
> And comments make my day


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